


Shrike

by hueue



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Good for them, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, My God these bitches gay, a little bit of monster jon for spice, too many gotdam eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26727952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hueue/pseuds/hueue
Summary: Martin interrupts Jon in the middle of taking a victim, things get simultaneously better and worse from there.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 193





	Shrike

**Author's Note:**

> hello lgbtq community, did the hozier title bring you in?  
> enjoy these mlm
> 
> (and <3 yes <3 the last fic i did was a steven universe one...people change)

Martin wasn’t quite sure on why he was outside.

Not only was it freezing out but it was  _ dark _ ; now, he wasn’t afraid of the dark even after learning of The Dark proper but eldritch horror aside, muggers were very real. Muggers were real and Martin was not the most intimidating person―sure he was fairly tall but he was soft in every sense of the word and his voice had an annoying habit of jumping up a few octaves whenever he was frightened. 

Maybe he was outside just to pretend he wasn’t completely alone for a few minutes. With how much Peter Lukas praised his ‘progress’ Martin would’ve expected that he wouldn’t crave human contact as much as he did; even just passing by another person or sharing a quick apology when he bumped into somebody was enough to send his heart racing. God knows how many times he had fantasized about going down to the Archives and sharing even a tense, angry conversation with Melanie or Basira or,  _ Christ,  _ even Daisy would do. Maybe even Jon...just a hello, maybe a question about one of Jon’s many special subjects he could talk forever about unaided by his patron. But no. No. He was doing this to keep Jon safe, he couldn’t be selfish.

He decided that the grocery store at the end of his street was his destination. Going to the store and back wouldn’t be enough to ruin his plans, he’d done it plenty of times even before Jon had woken up. The store was brightly lit, it was safe, and there was an old woman there who always tried to make it abundantly clear to him that she was not only Korean like him but gay like him, too. It was sweet, a tiny bit of solidarity two strangers shared. He made a note to get her a holiday card...or not, getting a holiday card for a stranger didn’t seem very Lonely. 

Martin hummed to himself while he walked, people watching on his way to the store. Not many people were out, as late as it was, but there were a few drunks and uni students and drunk uni students for him to look at. Some gave him passing nods and tight-lipped polite grins while others simply slipped past him without pausing in their conversation. It reminded him of when he had first started in the Archives and Tim would hustle him and Sasha to whatever pub had the cheapest drinks and the three would stumble home in each other's company. 

They’d stopped doing that after Prentiss. Jon had gotten violently paranoid, Tim had grown angrier, and Sasha... _their_ _Sasha_ ― 

He wiped the heel of his hand against his watering eyes. Jesus, could he not even  _ look  _ at people without a reminder of his dead friends bombarding him? 

The jarring florescence of the store’s lights and the overwhelming scent of cleaner was enough to distract him from his thoughts. He was okay, Jon was okay, Tim and Sasha were together somewhere good he hoped. 

He walked on autopilot throughout the store, lethargically grabbing whatever he imagined himself wanting in the coming days and the ingredients for the only cultural food he really knew how to make. Not a good grocery run by any means but all Martin really wanted to do was go back to his flat. The old grocery woman shot him a sympathetic look as he passed her on the way to the self-checkout; he wondered vaguely about what fiction she’d created in her head on what had him so upset―he bet it wasn’t: Upset because two of his closest friends died at the hands of eldritch creatures and his dumb, stubborn, wonderful crush couldn’t stop jumping into danger even when he’s  _ trying  _ to keep him safe by letting himself be taken by a  _ different  _ eldritch being. 

That, or she was an  _ amazing  _ guesser. 

There were even less people than before when he stepped out of the grocery store like he was suddenly the only person around for miles. Figured. Peter would’ve been thrilled. 

He focused on the soft squeak of his shoes to fill in the gaps where other voices or passing cars would typically be, his flat wasn’t far and once he got in he could just watch stupid television and reread Keats until the weekend was over. Sure, the Lonely was something supernatural but honestly, it was so incredibly boring at times. 

The crosswalk signal switched to walk and Martin― 

“...I didn’t even hear any glass break, really. It was like one second it wasn’t in my flat then the next second it was, like it could walk through  _ walls _ or something. I know that sounds daft but I'm being serious.” 

Martin’s brow furrowed at the muffled voice he heard, it didn’t sit right with him. It wasn’t the voice itself but more the way they spoke―too smooth, too easily, too evenly. They were monologuing. 

“It didn’t give a name or explain how the hell it had gotten in. It had just raised its bloody knife at me and told me that I had two hours to hide. I wanted to yell at it, to scream that it had no right to barge in on me like this, I really wanted to but...but I just ran from my flat to my boyfriend’s place.” the person sighed, “I know that that was wrong now. I just wish that it had told me all the rules...I wish I could’ve saved him.” 

His feet were moving before he had fully come to the decision that he wanted to know what was going on. Not everyday he overheard somebody recalling some horrific story to nobody. 

“I...he... _ ngh _ …” 

Their voice strained. Were they struggling? Oh God, were they in trouble? 

Martin’s pace quickened; Lonely or not, he was not going to let some poor person be victimized when he could’ve done something. They sounded closer now, their voice shaking while they described their boyfriend’s fate. 

“I hadn’t even realized two hours had passed! I-I walked out of his kitchen and that  _ thing  _ was just sitting there on his...on Issac’s body: ‘Just between us,’ it had said, then it told me I had another two hours to hide again. A-And I ran.” 

The voice led to a darkened alleyway― _ great _ . Martin took a deep breath and shouted, “Hello?” 

“―It’s been days now, maybe weeks? I don’t know, it’s hard to keep track―”

“Hello, are you okay? Y-You sound frightened.” 

“―I can’t keep this up much longer. At some point, it will catch me and I don’t know what it’ll do with me next―” 

Martin took a step inside, “Can...can you hear me?” a glimpse of something green caught his eyes, a sickly, familiar feeling crawling up his back, “Are you alone?” they kept speaking, unbothered with Martin’s interruptions. He still couldn’t  _ see  _ them, just the green  _ somethings  _ in the air. He fished out his mobile from his pocket, “I-I’m going to turn on my flashlight real quick, just to warn you. And...now.” 

The alleyway was washed in dim light, just enough to see the person sprawled out on the ground. 

They were terrified, pale-faced and tears streaming down their face while their mouth moved unbidden. Worse than that, they were  _ staring  _ at him, silently pleading for him to do  _ something _ . Martin’s hand shook, “Oh, shit. Okay, okay, what can I…” he caught a glimpse of something on the person’s chest―a shoe. They were being held down. But by  _ what?  _ He moved the light up the length of the leg and― 

_ “Jon!?”  _

It didn’t make sense but he’d know that mess of greying hair and scarred brown skin anywhere. Jon’s eyes snapped to him, glowing green and wide, (he had more than he had any right to and Martin surprised himself with how little he cared about that), he tilted his head to the side,  _ “Martin?”  _

His voice sounded like him but  _ not.  _ It sounded like he was trying to mimic the person he had trapped, the sound buried under crackling static. The person writhed, “Help me, please! I don’t know what it’s doing to me but I can’t stop talk―” Jon refixed his stare onto them and they stiffened, “I tried to wait it out two days ago, got tired...given up, I suppose and―” 

Martin dropped his grocery bags, rushing up to Jon and gingerly taking his face into his hands. Touching his skin was like pins and needles and static squealed in his ears when he forcibly ripped his attention away from his...victim. The person gasped out a thank you.

“Jon, the Archivist, whoever you are right now. You have to stop, okay? L-Let them go.” Martin pleaded, hoping that Jon could hear him through whatever trance he was in. He remembered all the times he’d caught him while reading a statement, how at some point he stopped having to even look at the paper. Jon didn’t blink, he didn’t breathe, but Martin could tell he was asking a question:  _ Why?  _ “Just...just listen to my voice, I’ve got you a-and I’m here. Just listen to my voice.” 

_ “Martin?”  _

He sounded breathless, Martin nodded, “Yeah, yeah, it’s me. Just…” gently but determined, he moved him off of the person’s chest. 

They sputtered and shot up, “Th-Thank you, thank you so much. I don’t―”

“You should probably go, good luck with your everything.” Martin advised firmly, they nodded quickly and ran off, disappearing around the corner but judging at how Jon’s eyes followed, he knew exactly where they were. Martin refocused his attention, hopefully the Archivist was just as much ADHD as Jon was. 

A cluster of green eyes studied him hungrily,  _ “Martin.”  _

The feeling of being watched increased ten-fold, he fought back the urge to run. Eldritch or not―this was Jon. 

“Jon…? Is this you or…?” 

He gasped as the Archivist’s burned hand found its way around his throat and he was pushed into the brick wall roughly,  _ “I have questions for you, Martin. _ ” 

The static shimmered in the air, “Okay! So Archivist, still! Got it, got it!” 

God, what was he supposed to do with his fully eldritch crush who looked like he wanted nothing more than to agonizingly rip his fears out through his teeth? He hadn’t really talked to Jon since he’d woken up for the sake of his plans, he had no idea how much his powers had progressed. 

But he did know he needed to speak to use them. 

In a quick motion, Martin slipped off the scarf around his neck and tied it tightly around Jon’s mouth, thankful for the one weekend where he’d been bored enough to learn how to tie knots. He stumbled back, pulling at the makeshift gag; Martin took the opportunity to slip away, grabbing his groceries on his way out of the alley. 

And he tried to leave him there, clawing at his gag and reeling in the middle of an alleyway. He really tried. 

But then Jon had coughed. A raw, scraping cough that spoke to a deeper illness behind it. He swayed on his feet, momentarily forgetting the gag in favor of sticking his arm out to catch him if he fell. He...he was ill. 

“...Jon?” he called, he coughed again and Martin spied something black beginning to stain the pale pink fabric of his scarf. “Shit.” 

He found himself back at his side, where he always was and always will be. He carefully wrapped his arm around Jon’s midsection, ignoring how all the eyes were staring dead at him. “What.” he grumbled, “I-I’m not gonna leave you here out in the cold in the middle of the night. You’re ill and,  _ and  _ I don’t want you doing...whatever you were doing to that poor person again. My flat’s right over there, yo-you can stay over for the night.” 

The Archivist limply pointed to the gag. 

“No, that’s staying on. You were about to compel me to say God knows what and I’ve kinda already had  _ a night. _ I’ll take it off once we get inside.” 

And, despite Martin’s expectations, he nodded in understanding. 

“Good! Now.” 

The walk back to his flat was thankfully uneventful, Jon just a dead weight on his side until they got inside and Martin tossed his groceries haphazardly on the couch. He herded his charge into the bathroom to get a closer look at him. It was awkward having both of them in his cramped bathroom, it barely fit  _ him  _ at times but he was just thankful that Jon was, by all definitions, rail thin. 

“Here.” he sat on the cold linoleum floor and motioned for him to do the same. Jon did, mirroring his pose exactly. Martin scooted closer, keeping his breathing steady as he undid the scarf and let it fall over Jon’s hands, “You alright?” Jon kept his head down, still not breathing with his unwashed hair covering his face, “Jon?” Martin’s hands moved without any instruction, gently brushing Jon’s hair away and tilting his face up to look at him. He only realized what he’d done when all of the unnaturally green eyes focused on him, even more than Jon had had just a moment ago he noticed. Martin pulled his hands away as his face flushed bright red, “...I...I’m sorry.” 

Jon stared, “Martin... _ wh _ ―” he paused, sharply pressing his nails into the flesh of his palm, “M... _ M _ a _ rtin.”  _ he strained, forcing each of his eyes closed with visible effort. 

His heart ached at how hard he was trying not to compel him, a part of him was relieved that he had come back to himself enough to not jump into compulsion but another louder part was tortured by seeing Jon in this state. 

“I don’t mind if you compel me, Jon.” he blurted out, “Like, obviously d- don’t do whatever you did back there but...it’s okay. Just talk to me.” 

Even before all the words were out, Jon’s hands reached out to grab his. He was shaking terribly, like something was trying to get out of his bones. 

_ “Stay. Please.”  _

The static from his voice wrapped around his body, clouding his vision for just a moment before he returned to himself and where his body was―staring dumbfounded at Jonathan Sims. He squeezed his massacred hands, “Y...Yeah, Jon, of course. I kn-know I haven’t been  _ around  _ lately but…” he swallowed hard, “I’m not leaving you.” 

“...thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it.” gingerly, he slipped his hands from Jon’s, “Now, what’s this stuff on the scarf―is it blood…? Or some spooky thing...and don’t get started on me saying spooky,  _ this  _ is proper spooky.” 

“Ink.” 

_ “Ink?!”  _ Martin repeated, a light of panic igniting in his chest, “Like  _ ink  _ ink? Pen ink?” Jon nodded, “Oh, God, i-is that  _ normal?”  _

He shrugged, “It’s new.” 

“Like the eyes?” 

“What? _ Oh.”  _ His hands went to his face, trying to hide all the extras while his cheeks burned, “Oh, oh, Christ, I’m sorry, I-I completely forgot, I lo...lost myself back there b-but it’s  _ me  _ now and―”

“Jon! Jon.” Martin interjected, taking a deep breath in hopes that Jon would follow and not make himself pass out from all the hyperventilating, “It’s okay! Honestly, they didn’t even put me off, I-It’s not like I didn’t  _ know  _ you aren’t...human...anymore. I think they’re really pretty! _ ”  _

More eyes opened on the backs of Jon’s hands, all watching him with wide-eyed confusion and curiosity, “... _ Pretty?! _ ” he sputtered quietly. A small smile began to spread across his face, interrupted by a harsh cough that sent ink flying across Martin’s floors; more worryingly, ink was beginning to drip from his nose. 

Martin frantically grabbed tissues from his countertop and shoved them into Jon’s shaking hands, “How, how do we stop this? Do you know what’s going on?” 

“I-I haven’t had a statement in a week. A good one, at least.” he explained, crumbling up the rapidly soiled tissues, “That’s what I was doing to that person out there―ge-getting a statement.” 

“It looked like you were torturing them, Jon.”

“I...I suppose I was.” 

“How long have you been doing this? Forcing statements from people?” 

“N-Not very long.” 

“Jon.” 

“A month. A month and six days.”

Martin leaned back against the door, trying his best to process the information he’d just been given. He’d heard of all sorts of monsters and horrifying eldritch beings in the statements he’d read but it was a whole different thing to imagine  _ Jon  _ as the inflictor of that trauma―that  _ he  _ was doing something so terrible. That there really was nothing stopping him from doing the same to Martin right now.

“I’d never.” Jon said suddenly, then blushed and covered his mouth, “Sorry.”

“One: You literally tried to twenty minutes ago and two: Don’t look in my head. Please.” Jon nodded, folding his hands in his lap. Martin sighed, “Jon, it isn’t  _ right  _ what you’re doing to people.” 

“I  _ know  _ but―” he chewed his lip, “it..it feels right.” 

“It isn’t  _ you  _ though! It’s just the Eye forcing you or whatever. You don’t want to rip the fear from people like that! You aren’t―” he took an incensed breath, trying to look past the eyes and the ink and the hunger and the static that laced his every word to just see Jonathan Sims underneath it all, “you  _ can’t  _ be that far gone already.”

Jon blinked, an odd thing to witness, “I’m sorry.” 

A moment of silence passed between them. 

“I-If it helps―you interrupted my... _ feeding  _ at the right time, didn’t get anything from it. They should be fine.” he let out a small humorless laugh, “Driving me crazy not knowing what happened though.”

A small weight lifted, only to be replaced by a heavier one, “So you’re still starving.” 

“I―yes.” he admitted sheepishly, even more ink dripping from his nose, “But I, I can go to the Institute to try and find a fresher one.”

“The Institute’s closed this time of night.” 

“I’ve got a key. We’ve all got one since we’ve been staying there.”

“We meaning…?”

“Oh, um, Daisy, Basira, Melanie, and myself.” 

Martin clicked his tongue, “Sounds like a fun sleepover.” he considered his options―either turn Jon loose again to return to the damned Institute and be looked after by three women who either have tried, have wanted to, or currently want to kill him, an action that would be incredibly Lonely. Or...or he could let Jon spend the night, maybe get him to eat something other than trauma and help him put his hair up in the way he always liked to and just…

__ The image of waking up next to Jon appeared in his head, put there by nobody but himself. 

“I have some statements here.” 

Jon’s eyes widened, immediately perking up, “What?” 

“When you were in the hospital, I went to pick up your things from Georgie and she gave me some statements you left behind, never got around to bringing them to the Institute. I-I don’t know if they’re what you need right now but no harm in checking, right?” 

“Right. Yes. I…” he trailed off, the static crackling and his eyes glowing softly. (‘Yeah.’ he thought, ‘Pretty.’) “They’ll be enough, t-to hold me over at least.” 

“Great!” he stood, his stiff joints screaming in protest, “They’re just in the living room so…” 

Jon stood as well, “Right.” 

The two of them awkwardly walked back to his living room, Martin not saying anything when Jon immediately went to where he’d been keeping the statements and brought the box into the open.

_ Click _ . A tape recorder suddenly appeared in the Archivist’s hand, the tape rolling away and listening in as it was meant to. He barely touched the stack of horror stories before his hands hungrily pulled out a piece of paper, setting it down before him. The dripping ink stopped finally, the Archivist wiping it away without another thought. His eyes clouded over, his hands tightening over the plastic case of the tape recorder as he began to speak, “Statement of Joseph Mateo Báez, regarding the disappearance of his father. Original statement given October 9th, 2013. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.” he smiled loosely as he spoke like he had just found water in the desert, “Statement begins.” 

It was fascinating to watch Jon record statements. Fascinating in an unsettling way. He truly became a totally different person once he began―his voice taking on the intonation and tone of a terrified teenager retelling how his father had seemingly blinked out of existence with just him left to remember that he’d ever existed. He became just a mouthpiece for all the terror of the world, static garbling beneath the syllables. 

Eventually, the words, “Statement ends.” flowed from his mouth, the paper fell from his hands and the tape clicked off. Jon slumped forward, caught only by Martin rushing forward to keep him from face planting. 

“Ngh…” he groaned, his two eyes opening slowly in confusion, “M-Martin?

“Yeah, yeah, you’re in my flat, remember?” 

“...Yeah.” he nodded, breathing shallowly. He ran a hand through his mess of hair, “Y-You’re talking to me.” 

“Should I not be?” 

“No, no, I don’t mean that, I just...y-you haven’t been. Ever since I woke up, you’ve been avoiding me. Or I think you are.” his head lulled back, “I’m happy you’re talking to me now, I miss you. I miss you so much.” 

Martin swallowed down the affection building in his throat. Here he was holding his previously unattainable crush in his arms while he languished about how much he missed him―it was almost too much for a poem. “I’m right here, Jon.”

“But you’re going to…” his eyelids looked heavy, how long had he been going without sleep? How long had he been kept up by some insatiable hunger? “dis-disappear again. Without me.” 

He bit his lip because he was. He was going to disappear again. He was going to pass on the information he’d gotten to Basira, Daisy, or Melanie and he’d go back to being Peter Lukas’ pet project. All while Jon worked to find new ways to destroy himself. It hurt in a way he couldn’t make poetic. 

It just hurt. The end.

Jon’s hands tightened on his jumper like he was trying to imprint the fabric into his skin, “I shouldn’t be saying this.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“No, no, you...you have your plans with the Lonely. I don’t  _ like  _ it but I understand that whatever you’re doing it for is important. I trust you. Completely.” he sniffed, blinking away mistiness in his eyes, “Will you be here when I wake up, at least?” 

Martin nodded, gently taking his hand, “I will.” 

Jon paused for a moment before placing a kiss directly onto the flesh of Martin’s palm, a small fleck of ink left behind. He looked at him, he looked back. A question was asked and answered. 

For all the time he’d spent thinking about what it’d be like to kiss Jonathan Sims, he could’ve never guessed it’d be on his living room floor while his face was smeared with ink and Martin counted down every millisecond they had left together. It was simple, desperate, perfect. 

They separated with a gasp for air. Both waiting for the other to speak first. 

Jon looked away, his hands still tangled with Martin’s, “Does this change anything?  _ Will this  _ change anything?” 

There was no compulsion in his words, Martin noted. He didn’t want the truth, he just wanted Martin to say something. 

“I hope.” 

“Yeah.” he squeezed his hand, “I miss you.”

Martin knew that come Monday they’d go back to barely seeing or speaking to each other, like nothing had ever happened. But it wasn’t Monday just yet. They had all the time in the world and not nearly enough. “I miss you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> martin saw the archivst with like 100 eyes and three seconds away from obliterating his ass and went: ...hm. i have learned something about myself today


End file.
